Armageddon Run

by David Robbins

  “He wants to what?” Bertha queried.

  “Talk, Black Beauty,” Hickok stated.

  Rudabaugh’s Winchester was leaning against the brick wall. He scooped it up and faced the Warrior. “We’re finished here,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s mosey on back to the town square.” Hickok led the way. “I hope the Doktor gets here soon. I’m itchin’ for some action.”

  “From what I hear, you see a lot of it,” Rudabaugh mentioned.

  “How about you?” Hickok inquired. “Have you seen a lot of action?”

  “Some,” Rudabaugh replied.

  “Are you hitched?” Hickok asked.

  “No.”

  “Where do you hang your hat?”

  Rudabaugh glanced at the gunfighter. “What is this, an interrogation?”

  “Just want to get to know you, is all,” Hickok said. “I already know a lot about Orson. He doesn’t have a wife, either—”

  “Who would marry Potbelly?” Bertha quipped.

  “—and he comes from a big family and has seven brothers and sisters,” Hickok went on. “I gather Wolfe, the leader of the Moles, couldn’t find any volunteers ’cause everybody reckoned this trip would be suicide, so he kind of twisted Orson’s arm to make him join up.”

  “How’d you find out Orson ain’t married and about his family and all?”

  Bertha questioned. “I didn’t think you two was on speakin’ terms.”

  “Geronimo and Orson had a talk last night,” Hickok disclosed, “while they were pulling guard duty. Geronimo told me about it this morning. He thinks we’ve been a mite hard on Orson.”

  “Oh, the poor baby!” Bertha cracked sarcastically.

  “So how about it, pard?” Hickok said to Rudabaugh. “Where do you live?”

  “I have a small ranch about thirty miles north of Pierre,” Rudabaugh answered. “I run about two hundred head of cattle, and I handle the dynamiting chores for anybody who needs some blasting done.”

  “Who watches your ranch while you’re gallivanting around?” Hickok asked.

  “My younger brother. One day he’ll be getting a spread of his own, and it’s good experience for him,” Rudabaugh stated.

  They were only one block from the town square.

  “How many brothers and sisters have you got?” Hickok inquired.

  Rudabaugh grinned at the mention of his family. “Two older sisters and my younger brother. My sisters are married and they keep nagging me to tie the knot.”

  “Typical,” Hickok declared. “Women are never happy unless they’re tellin’ a man what to do.”

  “Oh, really?” Bertha said. “You get married, and all of a sudden you’re an expert on women, huh?”

  “No man can be an expert on women,” Hickok opined.

  “And why’s that?” Bertha pestered him.

  Hickok nudged Rudabaugh with his left elbow and winked. “It’s because females are such contrary critters, no man could ever make sense out of ‘em.”

  “I’ll be sure and tell your wife you said that the next time I see her,” Bertha commented.

  They rounded a building and saw the SEAL still parked in front of the command post. Blade and Geronimo were standing near the driver’s door, conversing. Lynx was leaning against the vehicle, listening. Orson was visible on top of the command post, peering through the binoculars. The concrete command post was rectangular in shape with a flat roof. Access to the roof was gained via a flight of metal stairs attached to the western side of the structure, only 20 feet from the northwestern corner. The front door faced due north, and there was another exit in the eastern wall, about halfway along the building.

  “We’re all here, pard,” Hickok said as they reached the transport.

  Blade turned from his discussion with Geronimo. “Okay. We have a few things to talk about.” He gazed up at the roof. “Orson, can you hear me up there?”

  Orson’s bearded countenance appeared over the rim of the roof. “Loud and clear.”

  “Good. Give a listen to what I’m about to say, but keep your eyes peeled for any sign of movement on U.S. Highway 85,” Blade directed.

  “Will do,” Orson replied.

  Bertha grinned. Orson had obeyed Blade’s every command since the incident with Hickok the other night.

  “The Spirit has smiled on us so far,” Blade said to them, “but the worst is yet to come. We’re as ready as we’re going to be for the Doktor. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up yet, but his delay has worked to our advantage, allowing us the time to prepare our little surprises.” He paused, glancing at each of them in turn. “You all know what we’re doing here. We’re to stall as best we can. Somehow, some way, we’re to hold out here for two days.”

  “Why two days?” Bertha asked.

  “The Doktor will be expecting an ambush,” Blade stated. “He’s not stupid. He’ll have patrols scouting this area. If all of the Freedom Federation, all of the Cavalry and the Clan and the Moles and ourselves, were waiting for him here, he might decide to avoid a conflict and return to Cheyenne. Or he might elect to use a thermo on Catlow and wipe us all out—”

  “What’s to stop the Doktor from using a thermo on our Home?”

  Geronimo interjected.

  “I doubt the Doc would waste a thermo on the Family,” Lynx declared.

  “There weren’t too many thermo units still functional. If they have any left, you can bet the Doc and Sammy will save ’em for something special.”

  “As I was saying,” Blade resumed, “we want to draw the Doktor in, deceive him into believing we’re alone. If our main column stays miles from here, if the Doktor doesn’t know we have a well-armed army of our own, he’ll become overconfident. He’ll throw everything he has at us, and the longer we can hold out, the more convinced he’ll be that we’re by ourselves. He’ll concentrate on us and his perimeter security will lapse.

  Two days should do it. Two days after the fighting starts, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Kilrane will lead their forces in a combined assault on the Doktor’s flanks and defeat him.”

  “We hope,” Hickok muttered.

  “Wait a minute,” Rudabaugh said. “This plan of yours has a couple of holes in it. How do we know how big the Doktor’s force will be?”

  “We don’t,” Blade replied.

  “And what if his army is bigger than ours?” Rudabaugh queried.

  “Rikki and Kilrane will attack unless they feel their column would be slaughtered if they did. In which case, it has already been decided they should retreat,” Blade explained.

  “Leaving us high and dry.” Rudabaugh stated the obvious.

  “Now you know why this was a volunteer mission,” Blade commented.

  “One more thing,” Rudabaugh remarked. “How will Rikki and Kilrane know when to attack? How will they know when the fighting begins if they’re off in the distance somewhere? And what happens if we need them sooner, if we can’t hold out for two days?”

  “Already taken care of,” Blade disclosed. “One of Kilrane’s most trusted men should be watching us at this very second. He’s under orders to keep Catlow under surveillance, evade the Doktor’s patrols, and report to Kilrane and Rikki on the double if we need them sooner than anticipated.”

  “Hey!” Orson called down from the roof.

  Blade looked up. “What is it?”

  “Did Wolfe know all of this?” Orson asked.

  “Every stage. He was in on all the planning sessions. Why?” Blade responded.

  “He never told me all the details,” Orson complained. “All he said was whoever came here might not come back.”

  “We didn’t want to divulge the entire scheme,” Blade informed him.

  “Who knows where the Doktor might have spies?”

  “There’s one thing I’d like to know, chuckles,” Lynx mentioned.

  “What?”

  “Why just seven of us? Why not ten? Or twenty?”

  “Seven was the most we could comfortably cram into the SEAL
,” Blade answered.

  “Speaking of the SEAL,” Rudabaugh stated, “I’ve heard you guys mention it has some armaments. What type of weapons, exactly?”

  Blade reached out and patted the door. “The SEAL has already been battle tested, and we can vouch for its reliability. Our Founder, Kurt Carpenter, had two fifty-caliber machine guns hidden in recessed compartments under the front headlights. There is a flamethrower hidden in the center of the front fender. The SEAL has a rocket launcher positioned in the middle of the front grill. And, finally, we have a miniaturized surface-to-air missile mounted in the roof above the driver’s seat. The weapons systems are activated by a bank of four toggle switches installed in the dash. You also know the body is shatterproof and bulletproof. The SEAL will be our ace in the hole, so to speak.”

  “So we might be able to boogie out of here if things get too hot,” Bertha said.

  “Yes and no,” Blade declared.

  “Uh-oh.” Bertha frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that. What do you mean by yes and no?”

  “Yes, we could boogie, as you put it, and we’d probably stand a good chance of breaking through the Doktor’s lines. But no, we won’t do it because I don’t intend to let the Doktor know we have the SEAL here.”

  Bertha’s brow creased. “I may not be too bright sometimes, but even I can figure out you don’t intend to use the SEAL in our fight with the Doktor, do you?”

  Blade shook his head. “Not during the first two days. We’ll hide it in the big shed behind the command post.”

  “Hey!” Orson yelled down from the roof again.

  Blade glanced up. “What?”

  Orson pointed to the south. “We’ve got company!”

  Everyone tensed.

  “What do you see?” Blade asked.

  Orson had the binoculars pressed to his eyes. “A lot of vehicles coming over a low hill about a mile south of town. Ten, twelve, fourteen…” Orson looked down at Blade “A hell of a lot of “em!”

  “Keep watching!” Blade ordered. He stepped up to the transport and grabbed the door handle. “I’m going to hide the SEAL in the shed. You all know where your posts are. Remember, each of you is to take an M-16 and as much ammunition as you can carry from the collection we took from those dead soldiers. It’s piled inside the command post, in the first room to your left.”

  Hickok patted his right Python. “I’m partial to these, pard.”

  “We’ve already covered this,” Blade reminded him. “Save your favorite weapons until you really need them. Use the M-16s as much as you can.

  We have ample ammunition for them.” He grinned at each of them. “Hop to it!”

  Lynx watched Blade climb into the SEAL and drive the transport around the western corner of the command post.

  Rudabaugh started into the building to claim an M-16. “Do you want me to get one for you, Lynx?” he offered.

  Lynx shook his head. “Thanks, chuckles, but I don’t go in for firearms.”

  “Then what’re you gonna fight the Doktor with?” Bertha inquired.

  “Spitballs?”

  Lynx chuckled and raised his right hand. One by one, he extended his fingers and thumb, revealing the tapered nails, in reality iron-like claws, on the end of each digit. “These little beauties will do just fine, thanks.”

  “Your claws against guns?” Rudabaugh queried doubtfully.

  “If the Doc has brought his G.R.D.’s with him,” Lynx said, “it’ll be even-steven, ’cause us genetic misfits don’t go in much for guns. And as far as the soldiers are concerned,” Lynx said confidently, “if you don’t think I have a chance against guns, why don’t you walk over to the fountain and tell that to Captain Reno? I’m sure he’ll be tickled pink at the news.”

  Rudabaugh had seen the gory remains of the hapless officer. “No, thanks. I get the point.”

  Lynx clicked his nails. “So will they, bub! So will they!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Doktor waited until the next morning to launch his assault on Catlow.

  The night was cold, with the temperatures dropping down into the upper 30s. A stiff breeze blew in from the northwest. Geronimo, huddled in a blanket at his post behind a wooden fence in a yard just to the southeast of U.S. Highway 85, spent the long hours reflecting on his wife, Cynthia Morning Dove, and the likelihood of his being able to continue the family tree given his present situation. He thought of Plato, and Joshua, and Rikki, and all of his other close friends and loved ones in the Family, and wondered if he would ever experience the joy of seeing them again.

  Toward morning, when the first tinge of pink suffused the eastern horizon, he roused himself and placed the blanket on the ground.

  It would be soon.

  He could feel it in his blood.

  Geronimo peeped between the slats in the four-foot-high wooden fence, which was painted white and badly in need of repair, and gazed southward. U.S. Highway 85 was to the west of his position, running north and south. North of the yard it entered Catlow, making a beeline through the town. In the center of Catlow, to the west of 85, was the town square.

  Blade had scattered the seven of them at strategic locations designed to maximize their concerted firepower.

  South of Catlow, the highway proceeded for about 500 yards in a straight line and then traversed a small rise.

  Had something moved near the top of the rise?

  Geronimo squinted, scanning the rise. He held an M-16 in his hands; his FNC Auto Rifle was slung over his right shoulder. The Arminius was snug in its holster under his right arm, and his tomahawk was angled under his belt.

  Figures were slowly advancing over the rise.

  Geronimo flattened, keeping his eyes on the approaching forms. He counted at least two dozen, even more.

  Surprise! Surprise!

  They all appeared to be troopers.

  What gives? Geronimo mused. Surely the Doktor had brought some of his genetic horrors with him. So why would he send in ordinary soldiers?

  Geronimo could think of only one reason: the Doktor was saving his G.R.D.’s, and the patrol coming in now was sent to test the defenses the Doktor would have to face.

  The troopers were cautiously heading toward Catlow, strung out in two lines on either side of the highway, their weapons at the ready.

  The eastern sky was rapidly brightening.

  Geronimo could see their faces, their intent expressions and worried eyes. Many of them were young, and he felt a twinge of sorrow for the families they had left behind. Mourning a dearly beloved was a devastating experience, and he didn’t wish it on anyone. He vividly recalled his own grief when his parents had died; such misery should be kept to an absolute minimum.

  The soldiers were halfway across the straight stretch.

  Geronimo glanced to the west. He was in the southwestern corner of the fence, two yards from the road. Orson was supposed to be on the other side of U.S. Highway 85, waiting at the upstairs window of a green frame house.

  Would the Mole pull his weight when push came to shove? Orson had performed admirably during the fight in the town square, but they had—

  Wait!

  Two of the soldiers had detached themselves from the patrol and were racing toward Catlow at top speed.

  The point men.

  Geronimo inched forward and squinted between two of the slats. This would complicate matters. He would have to let the two point men pass his position.

  Would they spot him?

  Geronimo froze, immobile, holding his breath, as the two soldiers came abreast of his station. They were nervously looking in every direction, their fingers on the triggers of their M-16s.

  Geronimo could see their legs and boots as they passed by. There was less than a half inch of space between each wooden slat, and it was unlikely they would detect his presence unless they gazed directly at him.

  Otherwise, his prone body, dressed as it was in dark green, would simply appear to be part of the shadows at the base of the fence.<
br />
  The point men entered Catlow and kept going.

  Geronimo shifted his attention to the patrol. They were 30 yards out and closing. His nose began itching, and he suppressed an impulse to sneeze.

  Then it was 20 yards.

  Geronimo risked a hasty glance to his right, at the dilapidated home the fence was attached to, calculating the distance he would need to cover once the firing began.

  Ten yards.

  He mentally debated the wisdom of opening up as soon as they neared the fence, or waiting for some or all of them to go on by. If they went past, he would be shooting them in the back, and he found the idea morally distasteful. Hickok would have no qualms about doing it, he knew, but he wasn’t Hickok.

  Thank the Spirit!

  His dilemma was rendered moot by Orson.

  The burly Mole abruptly appeared, framed in the second-floor window of the house on the other side of the highway. His M-16 burped, shattering the glass in the window, and three of the first soldiers in line went down.

  Almost immediately, the patrol swung their automatic rifles on the window and started firing.

  Orson disappeared from view as the window, the sill, and the wall enclosing it were riddled with holes.

  That idiot!

  Geronimo jumped up, his M-16 pressed to his shoulder, unable to afford the luxury of a choice thanks to Orson’s stupidity. He let them have it, his bullets ripping into their backs and exploding from their chests, spraying crimson and flesh over the highway. They fell like the proverbial flies, seven, ten, and more, before the rest realized they were under attack from the rear.

  Some of the troopers spun, firing at the stocky form in green.

  Geronimo moved, sprinting toward the house, still firing as he ran, taking down two, three, four more, and then he reached the porch and dodged for the door, slugs from the soldiers hitting the porch all around him.

  Something nicked his left thigh.

  Geronimo slammed into the door.

  It didn’t budge!

  Five of the troopers ran up to the fence, blasting away.

  Geronimo dove, landing on his elbows and knees on the porch, as the wall above his body was perforated by bullets.